There's a story around town about a girl who could screw a man to death. You know how those tales go. But this one's true--more or less. Most of it happened before my time, but I've heard it enough to pass it on.
It all started down at the cafe. It's the only decent coffee shop in town, a popular place to this day. You hardly ever find the place empty, but that's the way it was, one evening in September, 1957.
Rosie was humming the strains of the new Buddy Holly number to fill the quiet. Her only customer sat behind his coffee cup, fingers idly rotating the medal he always wore--a Purple Heart awarded early in World War I.
"Need a refill, Jack?" Rosie asked.
He shook his head. He glanced around the restaurant, as if to make sure that they were, in fact, alone.
"Something on your mind, Jack?" He'd been acting odd all evening.
The veteran cleared his throat. "Rosie ... is it true what they say about you?"
"What have you heard?"
He shifted on the stool. "Oh, this and that. Like what's in the men's room right now."
Eyebrow arched, she checked the restroom. There, on the wall above the urinal, she read, "For the time of your life, ask Rosie."
)
The superstition says that anybody who has sex with Rosie ends up dead. Or to put it another way, Rosie hasn't been laid in a very long time. But perhaps Rob is the right man to break the curse.
